Page 137 of The Lies We Conjure
I can still feel the warmth of Auden’s body pressed against mine. See the fear in his eyes when Marsyas held my life in her hands. But that was then and this is now.
And I’m not one of them.
I never was.
This is it, then. The moment when our status as liars, as outsiders, as regular people can no longer go unaddressed.
I tip up my chin, and wait for him to say it.
For the words to come out of that too-perfect mouth. The one that kissed me only hours ago.
That the Four Lines can’t let us leave with what we know. For their magic to flood my senses until I don’t remember a thing. I’ll awake with Wren somewhere near here, dumped on the side of the road, expected to point ourselves home.
But then, Auden’s hand slips into mine—the one stained with visual proof of my lies. The one he healed. Those magical eyes of his crinkle in the corners, and for a wingbeat of a second I have hope.
“Now it’s over, Ruby. Time for you to go home.”
CHAPTER42
AUDEN
When midnight comes, the three remaining Hegemonys station ourselves once again in the solarium of the manor that bears our name. It no longer smells of Luna’s blood. Magic and darkness obscure what happened here hours ago.
Our houseguests are gone for now, the quarantined workers attended to, the magical and mental cleanup underway. There are still miles to go, but tonight, after everything, we fall into the comfort of our usual motions on the nights we must be Hegemonys—now this night and every single one forward, perhaps.
Evander, drinking—the amber slosh of scotch against crystal as he settles next to the fire, High Sorcerer’s ring glinting from its chain atop his shirt. The ring is unattached to the relics and its original use—for now. Our relic is stowed away in the safe in Ursula’s study.
Winter, preening—the day washed away in rosewater suds, her hair wet, clean, and halfway through a braid, her deft fingers making quick work. She almost didn’t come back to us, ready to take off the moment Infinity asked. They will. Soon.
Me, reading—not one of my father’s coveted editions, but my own memories like things to be noted, examined, analyzed, as I recognize the moment I should’ve known we would be here.
The memory is as strong as any soul’s truth in my mind’s eye.
I can picture Ursula in her study chair, prim-backed, fingers threaded together and set atop the leather blotter of her desk, the High Sorcerer’s ring catching the light from the diamond-paned windows over her shoulders. Her mouth set in a firm line, cerulean eyes as fierce as a fire’s heart and demanding that I look into them.
“We will crack and bleed, and fester until we’re healed,” Ursula continues, her gaze unwavering. There is magic in that, a thread of power that means what she says in this here and now will never fade from my memory. “Some will see this as a game to be won. Whatyoumust see it as is a set of instructions. Auden, it is crucial that you do exactly as I say. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Ursula.”
A stiff nod—curt, hard, decisive. “Now, here is what you must do.”
Next comes a deep, steadying breath. So unusual—so commonlyhuman—I nearly fall out of my chair.
She dips her chin, gaze still fierce as her carefully chosen words.
“We are an unbreakable family.” Ursula nods, almost to herself as much as to me. “But to live on, we must shatter and bind ourselves back together. This is why when I die, I want you to destroy the master relics.”
My lungs shudder to a breathless halt.
The master relics whose wards killed my father. My aunt and uncle. That made us orphans ten years ago.
“To survive, the witches of the Four Lines need to remember why we came together in the first place. I want you to ensure the magic is no longer tethered to the master relics nor my High Sorcerer’s ring. Our special family will know what it is to be apart, so we can remember why we’re together.”
The memory recedes, what actually happened layered beneath. Ursula was right—of course she was—on all of it, all but the final piece.
And I don’t know that we will survive this. Not yet.
Evander says my name. He’s moved from the fire, seating himself in a wingback chair pulled beside the settee where I’m situated, blinking away the deep violet pockets crowding my vision from staring into the crackling flames too long.
